


a supercut of us (i’m someone you maybe might love)

by itaintbabyshampoo



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Lesbian AU, angst if you squint, first love and all that jazz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-14 16:00:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18951379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itaintbabyshampoo/pseuds/itaintbabyshampoo
Summary: She can’t put it into words, doesn’t understand it yet herself, but Trixie is in love with Katya. Sickeningly, hopelessly in love. It’s been three weeks.A love-story told via brief snapshots of a life together.





	a supercut of us (i’m someone you maybe might love)

**Author's Note:**

> this is fully just 5000 words of lovesick nonsense and i regret none of it. 
> 
> title is from 'supercut' by lorde which is an ANTHEM. 
> 
> as always, mistakes are my own, enjoy x

_They have their first date on a Monday.  
  
_Trixie stands outside the door of the pub _,_ her sweaty palm reaching for the rusted copper door-handle. With a sharp intake of breath, she pushes inwards and steps over the threshold she’s stumbled in and out of what feels like a hundred times before. _  
  
_Trixie’s eyes scan the pub – it’s remarkably busy, she registers the hum of a football commentators voice in the background and her stomach drops just a little. She had picked today in the hopes it would be quiet, and that next to no one would be around to witness if her date with Katya became horrendously awkward – it seems the pre-planned football season had other ideas. She cranes her neck to look around and spies Katya at the table nearest the sliding patio doors leading to a small beer-garden, focused intently on her drink. _  
  
_She stares at her for a second, watching as she raises a finger to meet the condensation droplet running down the side of the pint glass she’s sipped from whilst she’s been waiting on her. She wonders how long she’s been here and tries to dispel the nagging guilt she feels about keeping her waiting. Trixie wonders if Katya feels the same nauseous butterflies flying up a sea-sick storm in her belly as she does.  
  
This isn’t the first time she’s seen her, not by a long shot; she feels, though, like it’s the first time she’s really _looked_ at her.  
  
Trixie looks on as Katya watches the droplet course onto her index finger, bringing her thumb up to meet it and rubbing the liquid between her fingers, unaware of Trixie staring at her like a voyeur peering into a fogged car window.  
  
Her short hair sits in waves, the legs of her 1950’s fashioned glasses nuzzling into the crooks of her ears and gently pushing some of the blonde tresses up into little loops around her head, like tiny golden halos. Her white jumper looks too heavy for the unseasonably warm spring day, despite the sleeves being rolled – Trixie wonders whether this was an attempt at ventilation, or an aesthetic choice. Either way, it works; Katya exudes cool, and it makes her second guess her choice of the faint yellow dress she’s worn – it’s her favourite, but she can’t help feeling that in the moment it makes her look younger than she is, despite the low square neck it sports.  
  
She stays standing in the doorway, realising only as Katya looks up at her from her now wet fingers just how odd she must look, standing in the pub doorway and clutching her bag to her chest. With just a moment of hesitation, she manages to put one foot in front of the other and makes it to the table Katya’s claimed as theirs without tripping over her own feet. Trixie counts it as a small victory.  
  
‘Hi,’ she says, although it comes out more as a nervous puff of breath than a word.  
  
_Why are you acting like such a fucking lunatic_? Trixie asks herself. They’ve worked together for months, sitting side by side in the art school’s studio slaving over their individual projects, so she shouldn’t feel so on the edge of spontaneous combustion as she does. _She asked you on a date for a reason, grow up._ Trixie repeats this to herself like a mantra.  
  
Katya makes a move to stand up and embrace her – she’s never really noticed how short she is before now, towering over her by at least a head. Not that Trixie particularly minds, she’s never had a thing about height. The corners of Katya’s pouty lips curl up ever so slightly and she gives Trixie a small grin, reaching an arm around her waist and pulling her into a light embrace at the side of the table, her hand ghosting over Trixie’s hip. It’s reassuring in its slight awkwardness.  
  
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” Trixie says as she withdraws from the loose cage of Katya’s arm and makes to sit down. It proves to be a task requiring more thinking power than one would think – Katya has chosen a table with long benches for seats and it takes an insane amount of grace that rarely befalls Trixie to swivel into position on the bench without flashing her trusty black underwear not only to Katya, but to the customers sitting nearby too.  
  
“Nah, don’t worry. I actually don’t think you’re late,” replies Katya, glancing at her leather-strapped watch, “I was just embarrassingly early.” She huffs out a shy laugh and makes a move to cradle her condensation covered pint of beer with both hands, eyes flitting to look up at Trixie through long lashes. The glass looks too big in her dainty, slender hands.  
  
“Oh shit, sorry, do you want a drink?”  
  
  
  
They chat for hours, about everything and nothing all at once. Trixie finds it odd – they’ve spent nearly two whole semesters side-by-side, with Katya producing strange ceramic figures and Trixie cross-stitching till her fingertips bleed, yet she’s only now just scratching the surface of _Katya_.  
  
Katya walks Trixie home, blunt blonde bangs sticking to her sweaty forehead in the evening heat, and her even sweatier hand clasped firmly in Trixie’s – Trixie doesn’t mind, not even a little bit. She just holds Katya’s hand tighter.  
  
Katya walks her all the way to the doors of her apartment block and bids her goodnight with a light kiss and a smile, saying she’ll call her tomorrow. Trixie almost melts into a puddle of happy goop right there in the doorway, rosy cheeks burning in the best way.  
  
  
\- - - - - -  
  
  
_It’s a Tuesday when they fuck for the first time._  
  
Trixie asks Katya out to dinner at a new vegetarian place that’s just opened in town – Katya isn’t vegetarian, but she’s picky when it comes to food and Trixie figures they can’t go far wrong with a vegetable-based dinner. It’s a nice night – warm enough that Trixie doesn’t have to wear a coat, but cool enough that she isn’t dripping in sweat through her imitation silk blouse.  
  
They’ve been dating for three weeks.  
  
It’s too early to put a name on what they are yet; they haven’t discussed it, but Trixie knows Katya feels the same. There’s no need to talk about it; why fix something that isn’t broken?  
  
Katya picks Trixie up in her beat-up, second hand Ford Fiesta; it’s a nineties model, with peeling red paint and rust spots. It has a faulty handle on the passenger side door, and Trixie’s life flashes before her eyes every time she rides in it. She’s made Katya promise never to go above forty in it, fears of it combusting on the motorway and the pair of them dying in a fiery roadside inferno.  
  
Katya has both front windows rolled-down when she pulls up at Trixie’s; they’re the type that must be manually rolled and Trixie knows Katya loves this, thinks that it adds to her whole aesthetic. It doesn’t, but Trixie won’t tell her that.  
  
“Get in loser, we’re going shopping! Well, for dinner, but you get the point…” shouts Katya, tanned arm hanging out over the window. She and Trixie watched Mean Girls for the first time the week before; well, _Katya_ watched it for the first time, Trixie just giggled as she watched her girlfriend-who’s-not-her-girlfriend become totally enamoured by it. Katya hasn’t stopped quoting it since.  
  
Trixie gets in the car and Katya turns to her, kisses her delicately on the cheek and squeezes her exposed thigh. She’s never had someone treat her with such care and gentle touches like Katya does, such reverence, and if she could purr, she would. Like a big fat, happy cat. She wants to curl up into Katya’s lap, have her stroke her hair. She’d never leave.  
  
The wind blows Katya’s hair relentlessly, blonde waves whipping around with the dust and insects. Her sunglasses reflect the road in front of them and Trixie can’t stop staring at her. Wouldn’t stop even if she could. Being with Katya makes her feel awake, like she never wants to waste a single second sleeping ever again.  
  
She can’t put it into words, doesn’t understand it yet herself, but Trixie is in love with Katya. Sickeningly, hopelessly in love. It’s been three weeks.  
  
  
  
When they get to the restaurant Trixie’s hair is a tangled mess – her sunglasses are caught in the tresses and Katya has to work carefully to free them without ripping out any of Trixie’s long blonde hair, stepping up onto her tip-toes to do so. Once the offending glasses are free, she kisses Trixie’s nose, right on it’s point, laces her fingers with Trixie’s and walks them inside.  
  
The restaurant is crowded and dimly lit. Their waitress shows them to a table in the back corner; it’s cramped but oh so intimate. Trixie orders vegetable fajitas and eats the whole lot. Katya orders a vegetarian lasagne and pokes it around the plate until the carefully crafted layers separate. They eat with one had each, opposite hands grasped in each others. They play footsy under the table the whole time until Katya accidentally kicks Trixie too hard in the shin and they dissolve into a mad fit of giggles and Katya knocks the salt shaker flying.    
  
Trixie pays their bill and they get back into the car. Katya rolls the windows back down and lights a cigarette before she backs them out of the parking lot, one hand on the wheel and one dangling her cigarette out the window, probably damaging the chipped paintwork even more, scorching it with little burn marks.  
  
They drive back to Trixie’s and she invites Katya inside. They both know what’s going to happen, but Trixie plans on drawing the pageantry out a little further. Dessert always tastes better after you’ve waited for it. She gets them a bottle of red wine from the cupboard, two glasses, an ashtray for Katya, and puts on her favourite Tammy Wynette record.  
  
They drink half the bottle between them and Katya smokes two cigarettes; Trixie takes an experimental draw of the second, coughs, splutters and thinks she’s dying for a second. Katya laughs at her, but her eyes are kind. She runs a hand across Trixie’s cheek, wiping away a stray tear caused by the choking, lets her palm cup the soft and freckled skin for a moment, and then the pageantry ends and the stage curtain falls.  
  
Katya puts both wineglasses on the table, free hands now on either side of Trixie’s plump little face. Trixie closes her eyes slowly, like something out of the films she watched religiously during her formative years. She bundles her legs up underneath her and leans into Katya, hands placed firmly on Katya’s lean thighs for balance. Slowly, so slowly, Katya leans forward and kisses Trixie. Delicate at first, chapped lips on smooth ones. Trixie’s on fire; burning hot, boiling over, scarlet. Her hands move from Katya’s thighs, searching for the girl’s slim waist, grabbing at her sides like a child grabs for a toy. She yanks Katya forward so hard that it propels her backwards, pulls Katya on top of her with thighs spread either side of her own thick waist. She bangs her head off the armrest of the sofa, and thinks she’s gotten away with it until Katya laughs into the kiss with a warm puff of air.  
  
“Shut up.” Trixie breathes into Katya’s mouth.  
  
Trixie tangles her hands in Katya’s hair and Katya’s hot mouth blazes a trail down the overheated skin of Trixie’s neck, open-mouthed and wet.  
  
Trixie gasps at the contact and Katya smirks against her neck, hands sneaking under the loose fabric of her summer dress, wandering _up, up, up_.  
  
  
  
After, they lie naked as they came, still on Trixie’s couch, with the last of the daylight dancing in through the open windows. Katya’s spread out on top of her, limp and boneless, sweaty skin on sweaty skin like velcro. Trixie thinks she could die happy right here, Katya nuzzling into the crook of her neck and her sweat slicked hair tickling Trixie’s chin.  
  
“You’re so beautiful, Trix,” Katya murmurs so quietly that Trixie wonders if she was supposed to hear it, if Katya’s just thinking out loud, caught in limbo between wakefulness and dreaming.  
  
“Go to sleep, Kat,” Trixie gently kisses the crown of Katya’s head, like a mother would her newborn.  
  
Trixie strokes Katya’s hair until they fall asleep. Eyes heavy and heart full, she can’t tell who drifts off first. She hopes it was Katya.   
  
  
  
  
\- - - - - -  
  
  
  
  
_They go to the beach on a Wednesday_.  
  
Trixie had protested when Katya suggested it the night before. It’s November now, and the winter chill is brutal, Trixie swears that she can feel it in her bones. Trixie doesn’t like beaches at the best of times; it’s too hot in the summer and the sand sticks to her sun lotion covered skin. She’s never been to a beach in winter but knows for a certainty that she’ll like it even less. It’s snowed so hard overnight that their classes have been cancelled and Trixie’s excited to spend the whole day with Katya. Together. Indoors. Warm. Toasty. Not at the beach, freezing, wet and miserable.  
  
“It’ll be fun! Babe, c’mon, I’ll buy us ice cream,” Katya bargains as she and Trixie lie in bed together.  
  
“Kat, it’s November. It’s cold. Let’s just stay in bed,” Trixie protests, snuggles deeper under the duvet with her back still turned to Katya. Trixie knows she’ll relent eventually, knows herself too well to ever really deny Katya anything.  
  
They’ve been together for five months. _Properly together_. Trixie introduces Katya to people as her girlfriend, and they take turns making each other dinner three nights a week. Well, Trixie makes dinner; Katya buys them take-away, something new every time. Trixie appreciates the thought, both the hits and the misses of Katya’s takeaway-food journey.  
  
Katya leans over Trixie, perpendicular and on top of the duvet. She looks at Trixie, eyes screwed shut feigning sleep, but a smile forming on her lips.  
  
Katya smothers her face in quick little kisses. “Please, please, _please_ come to the beach with me,” she says between them, her growing hair just managing to tickle Trixie’s bare shoulder as she clambers further on top of her.  
  
Trixie’s non-existent resolve crumbles when Katya’s lips ghost over her neck. She’ll go to the beach, Katya’s wish is nothing if not her command, but not before she wastes at least another hour in bed with Katya, pyjamas optional.  
  
  
  
Katya keeps to her word – she buys them ice cream cones, two scoops each; Trixie picks a strawberry and vanilla concoction, whilst Katya opts for two dollops of mint choc-chip. The lady behind the counter looks at the pair of them like they’re crazy, and Trixie supposes that yes, yes, they are.  
  
They eat it on a bench over-looking the seafront, freezing but happy. A blanket of snow covers the white-gold sand that will shine bright in the summer; the waves crash against the snow mercilessly and so cold that they turn it to sheet ice in place of melting it. Trixie snuggles closer to Katya, accidentally gets a slick of vanilla on the lapel of Katya’s ugly tartan winter coat. Katya doesn’t notice, eyes crossed and tongue poking at the dessert, intently focussed on lapping up the minty goodness. If it weren’t so freezing, their ice cream would have melted by now. Katya’s hands would have been covered and Trixie would have gladly licked them clean. Trixie _longs_ for summer.  
  
“Kat?” Trixie says as another wave crashes into the snow-covered sand.  
  
“Yeah?” Katya mumbles back, mouth occupied with a bite of ice cream cone waffle.  
  
“I love you.”  
  
Katya freezes mid chew, but not before her half-eaten cone falls out of her limp hand and lands with a dull thud into the snow at her feet. Trixie panics – white hot nerves grip hold of her insides and she thinks about running head first into the ocean in front of her to cool off; she’s been wanting to tell Katya for weeks now, fighting to keep the words inside her fit-for-bursting chest. But the panic only lasts for a moment.  
  
Katya gulps down the mouthful of waffle and ice cream with such force that Trixie can almost see it travel down her gullet. Then the next thing she knows, Katya’s crowding her, gloved hands holding her wind-burned face and her woolly hat covered forehead resting on Trixie’s own. She kisses her with such intensity it almost knocks Trixie clean off the bench. Katya’s eyes are closed tight but Trixie’s are wide open – she knows it’s weird, but she’s determined to take every second of this moment in.  
  
Katya tastes like ice-cream and the salty air whips up a frenzy around them. Trixie thinks it might be the best moment of her life so far. If time stood still, Trixie wouldn’t miss it for a second. She wants an eternity with Katya.    
  
  
  
  
 - - - - - -  
  
  
  
  
_They graduate on a Thursday.  
  
_Their apartment is a mess. They moved in together just under a month ago, between the end of their final exams and graduation, and never really got around to unpacking. There are boxes everywhere, some half-emptied and their contents strewn throughout the apartment. It’s been driving Trixie crazy for days now but neither she nor Katya have had the time to do anything about it - they’ve both continually put it off as being tomorrow’s problem, but tomorrow has yet to come.  
  
Katya’s parents have flown in specially to watch their only child graduate, and Trixie’s mother has spent the better part of the early morning driving up the country to meet them there at the graduation ceremony. Trixie’s been caught in between a whirlwind of fluent Russian and broken English for two days now; she’s found herself a bit redundant watching Katya and her parents chat, only being able to mutter a _hello_ and _thank you_ in less than perfect Russian. Katya’s parents try their hardest to treat her like she is one of their own however, despite the language barrier. Trixie appreciates it more than she could ever put into words, can begin to see where Katya gets her good nature from. She makes a mental note to hug them tighter upon their departure based on that fact alone.  
  
Katya’s a vision in a flowy white peasant dress; it shouldn’t work, but it does. It stops at her thigh and creates a brilliant contrast against her tan skin, part sun-kissed and part Trixie rubbing instant tan into her skin at the crack of dawn this morning. Her red graduation gown compliments her now platinum hair, left down in waves to be able to fit the graduation cap over her head. Trixie can’t help but think the deep red of her own gown washes her out, but then she looks at Katya and doesn’t care, too enamoured by her girlfriend to bother with adding extra bronzer to her cheeks.  
  
Trixie, Katya and Katya’s parents all filter out of the apartment and into Katya’s little red car; Katya and her father sit in the front whilst Trixie squeezes herself into the back seat with Katya’s mother, cap in hand and graduation gown gathered up over her thighs.  
  
  
  
Trixie meets her mother outside of the hall, struggles to spot her in the sea of people mulling into the building, but when she does she runs and hugs her tight, like she hasn’t seen her in forever. Her mother starts crying and Trixie lovingly berates her, wipes her tears away carefully and tells her to save them until she’s walking across the stage, the proud owner of a bachelor’s degree.  
  
Trixie has to sit eight rows in front of Katya, on account of them being organised into alphabetical order based on surname. Before she finds her seat, she gives Katya a quick peck on the cheek and whispers to her girlfriend to watch her step as she crosses the stage in front of their graduating class – Katya had many a sleepless night in the run-up to today, worrying about tripping, fainting or just falling through a stage door in the floor.  
  
Trixie’s up first; her row filters out of their seats and she waits in the wings until finally her name is called. She marches across the stage, cap secured on her head and gown flowing out behind her. She can her Katya whoop from the crowd over the applause, knows for a certainty that it’s her and, well, Trixie just can’t stop the massive smile that spreads across her face as she shakes hands with the Master of Ceremonies. Four years later and she’s finally done it. _They’ve finally done it_.  
  
When it’s Katya’s turn, Trixie thinks her heart might burst right out of her chest and hit the girl seated in front of her. She’s never been this proud of anyone before in her life, not even herself. She wants to cry, wants to cheer, wants to scream out how much she loves Katya as she walks bashfully across the stage, her too-long gown grazing the polished floor as she does so. Trixie stands and claps so hard that her hands feel raw after.  
  
  
  
They have dinner at an Italian restaurant to celebrate; they all drink champagne and Katya’s dad gives a speech in a mixture of Russian and English that almost makes Trixie want to cry even though she has no idea what he’s saying for the most part, and makes Katya’s cheeks glow bright red.  
  
Under the table, Katya links her pinkie finger with Trixie’s as Trixie’s mother pulls out a pocket dictionary of Russian to English phrases and assaults Katya’s parents with her attempts, succeeding only in butchering the language. Katya’s parents humour her with good grace though and Trixie and Katya finish off the bottle of champagne without anyone else noticing.  
  
  
  
They get home late at night, long after the sun has set, and their respective parents have returned to hotel rooms across the city. Katya eats Trixie out pressed up against the hallway table, licking and sucking at her like a parched soul, graduation robes slung on the floor around their ankles. Trixie’s never felt so content in her whole damn life. She would live in this moment if she could.  
  
But time doesn’t work like that.  
  
  
  
  
 - - - - - -  
  
  
  
  
_They break up on a Friday.  
  
_It's been three months since Trixie started her new job, and she _loves_ it. It’s her second job since graduating and she finally feels like she’s found her place, a workplace where she can thrive. What she doesn’t love however, is how little time she gets to spend with Katya now. Their schedules rarely match up – Katya took a job at a bar, reluctant to monetize her art, and mostly works late nights, sleeping through the normal working-day. When they do miraculously have time to spend together, they’re both too tired to do anything other than lay in bed and order take-away. It’s _fine, totally fine_. That’s what Trixie keeps telling herself anyway. It’s normal – they’re not students anymore, haven’t been for over a year, it's just how real life works. It just means that Trixie has to cherish the few and far between moments that the stars align and they can spend time together even more than she did before. But her patience is wearing thin at the world, and she knows that Katya’s is too.  
  
They stopped having sex two months ago. It wasn’t a conscious choice, it just _happened._ And neither of them has broached the subject since, instead they skit around it, and each other – a light touch here, a fleeting glance there; like they _could_ , like they _should_ … and then it stops, like someone’s flicked a switch. They go to bed, kiss once, roll to opposite sides of their double bed, and when Katya wakes in the morning Trixie is already gone, leaving behind only her worn pyjamas and bagel crumbs on the counter top.  
  
  
  
It's Katya that pulls the plug in the end. It’s nothing like any of the Hollywood break-ups Trixie imagined her life might bring; instead, it’s quiet and at the end of the day, mutual. They love each other, they’re just not _in love_.  
  
Trixie’s heart is breaking the whole time, but she doesn’t cry. Katya does. Katya cries so hard that Trixie has to hold her in her lap like an upset child, wiping the snot from her face with the sleeve of her cardigan, lulling her back and forth until her wet hiccupping subsides. Deep down they both know that this is what they were careening towards, but Katya’s crying makes Trixie want to do anything to stop it from happening, would throw herself in front of the metaphorical train if she could. She knows she can’t though, knows that if they continue like this that it’s only a matter of time before one (or both) of them does something stupid, and irrevocably hurts the other. They’ve been going through the motions for months, both consciously and unconsciously. Trixie tells herself that it’ll be better this way, whispers it to Katya too, even if she has no way of knowing that.  
  
They spend one last night together. They still don’t have sex, but they do huddle close together in bed, under the duvet when the last of the daylight is still yet to be coloured in by inky darkness. Neither of them speaks because there’s nothing left to say, not really. Katya falls asleep first, hand tentatively spread over Trixie’s clothed abdomen and head half on her own pillow, half on Trixie’s.  
  
Trixie lies awake for hours staring at the ceiling until her eyes refuse to stay open any longer.  
  
  
  
In the morning Katya makes them coffee, one last cup for old times sake. Trixie slowly packs all her things into boxes they had kept flattened in the cupboard. Katya’s agreed to keep the apartment until the lease runs out in a few months – Trixie decides to sleep on a friend’s couch in the meantime; she knows she makes more than Katya, and their – well, Katya’s - apartment is a steal rent-wise, so it only makes sense to let her keep it, one last act in Trixie’s self-martyrdom.  
  
It takes longer than it should for Trixie to pack, their individual belongings amassing one moderate collection in which it’s impossible to remember what belongs to who. In the end she just gives up, leaves most of their things for Katya to keep.  
  
When it’s time for her to leave, Trixie kisses Katya on the mouth out of habit. It doesn’t feel right anymore. They both realise it.  
  
Katya closes the door behind Trixie as she carries her worldly possessions downstairs and into her waiting uber.  
  
She cries, and cries, and cries the whole journey downtown.  
  
  
  
  
 - - - - - -  
  
  
  
  
_They run into each other on a Saturday.  
_  
Trixie’s at an art gallery opening one of her old friends from university is holding. She hadn’t planned on coming, but then the Facebook event notification had popped up on her iPhone lockscreen and she’d hopped in the shower out of guilt. She’d moved uptown a year ago and has rarely seen her old buddies since, and she has nothing to do on the Sunday morning after anyway, or a woman waiting up at home for her.  
  
It's hot and sweaty in the gallery; an intimate space downtown, jam-packed with people and severely lacking in any form or air-conditioning other than open doors which only serve to let more hot air in. It reminds Trixie of their shared studio in art school. She misses the space so much, misses how it used to positively overflow with creativity and naiveite.  
  
She’s had a walk around and now she’s sweating in places she never wanted to sweat, didn’t think it was biologically possible. She makes for the door and steps outside, straight into a cloud of cigarette smoke. She coughs and splutters, gears up to give her _you know smoking is bad for you, right?_ speech, but then she sees the hand holding the cigarette, clamped between slim fingers.  
  
It's Katya, but not _her Katya_ somehow. Her hair is still the same platinum of two years ago, but she’s cut it short again, so it hits just at her chin. She wears wide-rimmed cat-eye sunglasses and her red lipstick cuts a sharp contrast against her now pale skin. Trixie still thinks she’s beautiful, reflecting the sun like clear water.  
  
“Trixie!” Katya yells too loudly when she realises who she’d almost chocked to death on carcinogenic smoke.  
  
“Katya, hi. It’s uh, it’s so good to see you!” Even to her own ears Trixie knows she sounds overly-enthusiastic, but if Katya notices she doesn’t let on. Small mercies and all that.  
  
It's been two years since they last seen each other. Well, in person. They never deleted each other from social media (Trixie’s friends thought they were oh so very mature) but it’s different seeing Katya in the flesh, rather than via her little life updates, profile picture changes and ever rotating online relationship status.  
  
“How have you been?” Katya asks, and Trixie gives her a glossed-over version of events, summarising the past two years. She’s been good, and she tells Katya as such. Katya reciprocates, and Trixie is so _so_ glad to see her, to know she’s doing well for herself, to hear her voice again.  
  
Trixie won’t lie – she does miss Katya. It’s not every day, and it’s also not the soul-destroying longing she thought it might be when they first split, but it’s in little moments, _odd moments._ Moments when work is hitting her hard, or there’s a spider in the tub or when she finds a good meme but there’s no one around to laugh at it with her. It’s like missing a TV show after it’s been cancelled for years, ending before it’s good run turned too sour to leave anything to be nostalgic about. _  
  
_They talk about everything and nothing on that street corner, dodging people as they enter and exit the crowded gallery. They stand chatting for so long that the sun begins to set behind the buildings. It casts Katya’s face in a fiery orange glow so bright that for a second, just a second, she looks like the old Katya, _Trixie’s Katya_ ; tanned and brilliant, full of life and stories.  
  
The nostalgia of it all takes Trixie by surprise.  
  
Before long, they call it a night. It’s too soon for Trixie, even though it’s been at least an hour of standing on the pavement, laughing at jokes that aren’t that funny and listening to Katya rant about everything from politics to pickles. Katya hugs her goodbye and Trixie feels like her lungs might collapse, wills her body to _just behave_.  
  
Katya whispers a goodbye and hesitates before she turns her back on Trixie, walking away. She makes it three steps up the street before turning back, grabbing Trixie’s slender wrist and scribbling her new telephone number along the back of it in indigo blue ink. She signs it with a kiss, smirks, and all but runs away again.  
  
Trixie doesn’t ever want to wash her arm again, never wants to leave this blessed street corner.  
  
  
  
_  
_  - - - - - -  
  
  
  
_Trixie calls Katya on a Sunday.  
  
_“Hello?” _  
  
_“Hey, Katya. It’s uh—it’s Trixie. Mattel.”  
  
“Oh! Hi,” Katya answers, attempts to mask her surprise but Trixie knows her too well, even after the years apart. She truly hadn’t been expecting Trixie to call her. If Trixie could crawl through the phone line and hug her, she would.    
  
“Listen I’m just gonna’ come out with it. Let me buy you a drink.”  
  
Trixie thinks back to that very first date in their local campus pub. She never did buy Katya a drink in return.  
  
“Just tell me when and where. I’ll be there.”


End file.
